"No. And they were not alike in their lot."
"You did not mention her to me," said Dorothea.
"My aunt made an unfortunate marriage. I never saw her."
Dorothea wondered a little, but felt that it would be indelicate justthen to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon did not proffer, andshe turned to the window to admire the view. The sun had lately piercedthe gray, and the avenue of limes cast shadows.
"Shall we not walk in the garden now?" said Dorothea.
"And you would like to see the church, you know," said Mr. Brooke."It is a droll little church. And the village. It all lies in a nut-shell. By theway, it will suit you, Dorothea; for the cottages are like a row of alms-houses—little gardens, gilly-flowers, that sort of thing."
"Yes, please," said Dorothea, looking at Mr. Casaubon, "I should liketo see all that." She had got nothing from him more graphic about theLowick cottages than that they were "not bad."
They were soon on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassyborders and clumps of trees, this being the nearest way to the church,Mr. Casaubon said. At the little gate leading into the churchyard therewas a pause while Mr. Casaubon went to the parsonage close by to fetcha key. Celia, who had been hanging a little in the rear, came uppresently, when she saw that Mr. Casaubon was gone away, and said inher easy staccato, which always seemed to contradict the suspicion ofany malicious intent—
"Do you know, Dorothea, I saw some one quite young coming up oneof the walks."
"Is that astonishing, Celia?"
"There may be a young gardener, you know—why not?" said Mr.Brooke. "I told Casaubon he should change his gardener."
"No, not a gardener," said Celia; "a gentleman with a sketch-book. Hehad light-brown curls. I only saw his back. But he was quite young."
"The curate's son, perhaps," said Mr. Brooke. "Ah, there is Casaubonagain, and Tucker with him. He is going to introduce Tucker. You don'tknow Tucker yet."
Mr. Tucker was the middle-aged curate, one of the "inferior clergy,"who are usually not wanting in sons. But after the introduction, theconversation did not lead to any question about his family, and thestartling apparition of youthfulness was forgotten by every one but Celia.She inwardly declined to believe that the light-brown curls and slimfigure could have any relationship to Mr. Tucker, who was just as oldand musty-looking as she would have expected Mr. Casaubon's curate tobe; doubtless an excellent man who would go to heaven (for Celia wishednot to be unprincipled), but the corners of his mouth were so unpleasant.Celia thought with some dismalness of the time she should have to spendas bridesmaid at Lowick, while the curate had probably no pretty littlechildren whom she could like, irrespective of principle.
Mr. Tucker was invaluable in their walk; and perhaps Mr. Casaubonhad not been without foresight on this head, the curate being able toanswer all Dorothea's questions about the villagers and the otherparishioners. Everybody, he assured her, was well off in Lowick: not acottager in those double cottages at a low rent but kept a pig, and thestrips of garden at the back were well tended. The small boys woreexcellent corduroy, the girls went out as tidy servants, or did a littlestraw-plaiting at home: no looms here, no Dissent; and though the publicdisposition was rather towards laying by money than towardsspirituality, there was not much vice. The speckled fowls were sonumerous that Mr. Brooke observed, "Your farmers leave some barley forthe women to glean, I see. The poor folks here might have a fowl in theirpot, as the good French king used to wish for all his people. The Frencheat a good many fowls—skinny fowls, you know."
"I think it was a very cheap wish of his," said Dorothea, indignantly."Are kings such monsters that a wish like that must be reckoned a royalvirtue?"
"And if he wished them a skinny fowl," said Celia, "that would not benice. But perhaps he wished them to have fat fowls."
"Yes, but the word has dropped out of the text, or perhaps wassubauditum; that is, present in the king's mind, but not uttered," saidMr. Casaubon, smiling and bending his head towards Celia, whoimmediately dropped backward a little, because she could not bear Mr.Casaubon to blink at her.
Dorothea sank into silence on the way back to the house. She feltsome disappointment, of which she was yet ashamed, that there wasnothing for her to do in Lowick; and in the next few minutes her mindhad glanced over the possibility, which she would have preferred, offinding that her home would be in a parish which had a larger share ofthe world's misery, so that she might have had more active duties in it.Then, recurring to the future actually before her, she made a picture ofmore complete devotion to Mr. Casaubon's aims in which she wouldawait new duties. Many such might reveal themselves to the higherknowledge gained by her in that companionship.
Mr. Tucker soon left them, having some clerical work which wouldnot allow him to lunch at the Hall; and as they were re-entering thegarden through the little gate, Mr. Casaubon said—
"You seem a little sad, Dorothea. I trust you are pleased with whatyou have seen."
"I am feeling something which is perhaps foolish and wrong,"answered Dorothea, with her usual openness—"almost wishing that thepeople wanted more to be done for them here. I have known so few waysof making my life good for anything. Of course, my notions of usefulnessmust be narrow. I must learn new ways of helping people."
"Doubtless," said Mr. Casaubon. "Each position has its correspondingduties. Yours, I trust, as the mistress of Lowick, will not leave anyyearning unfulfilled."
"Indeed, I believe that," said Dorothea, earnestly. "Do not supposethat I am sad."
"That is well. But, if you are not tired, we will take another way tothe house than that by which we came."
Dorothea was not at all tired, and a little circuit was made towards afine yew-tree, the chief hereditary glory of the grounds on this side of thehouse. As they approached it, a figure, conspicuous on a darkbackground of evergreens, was seated on a bench, sketching the old tree.Mr. Brooke, who was walking in front with Celia, turned his head, andsaid—
"Who is that youngster, Casaubon?"
They had come very near when Mr. Casaubon answered—
"That is a young relative of mine, a second cousin: the grandson, infact," he added, looking at Dorothea, "of the lady whose portrait youhave been noticing, my aunt Julia."
The young man had laid down his sketch-book and risen. His bushylight-brown curls, as well as his youthfulness, identified him at once withCelia's apparition.
"Dorothea, let me introduce to you my cousin, Mr. Ladislaw. Will,this is Miss Brooke."
The cousin was so close now, that, when he lifted his hat, Dorotheacould see a pair of gray eves rather near together, a delicate irregularnose with a little ripple in it, and hair falling backward; but there was amouth and chin of a more prominent, threatening aspect than belongedto the type of the grandmother's miniature. Young Ladislaw did not feelit necessary to smile, as if he were charmed with this introduction to hisfuture second cousin and her relatives; but wore rather a pouting air ofdiscontent.
"You are an artist, I see," said Mr. Brooke, taking up the sketch-bookand turning it over in his unceremonious fashion.
"No, I only sketch a little. There is nothing fit to be seen there," saidyoung Ladislaw, coloring, perhaps with temper rather than modesty.
"Oh, come, this is a nice bit, now. I did a little in this way myself atone time, you know. Look here, now; this is what I call a nice thing,done with what we used to call brio." Mr. Brooke held out towards thetwo girls a large colored sketch of stony ground and trees, with a pool.
"I am no judge of these things," said Dorothea, not coldly, but withan eager deprecation of the appeal to her. "You know, uncle, I never seethe beauty of those pictures which you say are so much praised. Theyare a language I do not understand. I suppose there is some relationbetween pictures and nature which I am too ignorant to feel—just as yousee what a Greek sentence stands for which means nothing to me."Dorothea looked up at Mr. Casaubon, who bowed his head towards her,while Mr. Brooke said, smiling nonchalantly—
"Bless me, now, how different people are! But you had a bad style ofteaching, you know—else this is just the thing for girls—sketching, fineart and so on. But you took to drawing plans; you don't understandmorbidezza, and that kind of thing. You will come to my house, I hope,and I will show you what I did in this way," he continued, turning toyoung Ladislaw, who had to be recalled from his preoccupation inobserving Dorothea. Ladislaw had made up his mind that she must be anunpleasant girl, since she was going to marry Casaubon, and what shesaid of her stupidity about pictures would have confirmed that opinioneven if he had believed her. As it was, he took her words for a covertjudgment, and was certain that she thought his sketch detestable. Therewas too much cleverness in her apology: she was laughing both at heruncle and himself. But what a voice! It was like the voice of a soul thathad once lived in an AEolian harp. This must be one of Nature'sinconsistencies. There could be no sort of passion in a girl who wouldmarry Casaubon. But he turned from her, and bowed his thanks for Mr.Brooke's invitation.
"We will turn over my Italian engravings together," continued thatgood-natured man. "I have no end of those things, that I have laid by foryears. One gets rusty in this part of the country, you know. Not you,Casaubon; you stick to your studies; but my best ideas get undermost—out of use, you know. You clever young men must guard againstindolence. I was too indolent, you know: else I might have beenanywhere at one time."
"That is a seasonable admonition," said Mr. Casaubon; "but now wewill pass on to the house, lest the young ladies should be tired ofstanding."
When their backs were turned, young Ladislaw sat down to go onwith his sketching, and as he did so his face broke into an expression ofamusement which increased as he went on drawing, till at last he threwback his head and laughed aloud. Partly it was the reception of his ownartistic production that tickled him; partly the notion of his grave cousinas the lover of that girl; and partly Mr. Brooke's definition of the placehe might have held but for the impediment of indolence. Mr. WillLadislaw's sense of the ludicrous lit up his features very agreeably: it wasthe pure enjoyment of comicality, and had no mixture of sneering andself-exaltation.
"What is your nephew going to do with himself, Casaubon?" said Mr.Brooke, as they went on.
"My cousin, you mean—not my nephew."
"Yes, yes, cousin. But in the way of a career, you know."
"The answer to that question is painfully doubtful. On leaving Rugbyhe declined to go to an English university, where I would gladly haveplaced him, and chose what I must consider the anomalous course ofstudying at Heidelberg. And now he wants to go abroad again, withoutany special object, save the vague purpose of what he calls culture,preparation for he knows not what. He declines to choose a profession."
"He has no means but what you furnish, I suppose."
"I have always given him and his friends reason to understand that Iwould furnish in moderation what was necessary for providing him witha scholarly education, and launching him respectably. I am-thereforebound to fulfil the expectation so raised," said Mr. Casaubon, putting hisconduct in the light of mere rectitude: a trait of delicacy which Dorotheanoticed with admiration.
"He has a thirst for travelling; perhaps he may turn out a Bruce or aMungo Park," said Mr. Brooke. "I had a notion of that myself at onetime."
"No, he has no bent towards exploration, or the enlargement of ourgeognosis: that would be a special purpose which I could recognize withsome approbation, though without felicitating him on a career which sooften ends in premature and violent death. But so far is he from havingany desire for a more accurate knowledge of the earth's surface, that hesaid he should prefer not to know the sources of the Nile, and that thereshould be some unknown regions preserved as hunting grounds for thepoetic imagination."
"Well, there is something in that, you know," said Mr. Brooke, whohad certainly an impartial mind.
"It is, I fear, nothing more than a part of his general inaccuracy andindisposition to thoroughness of all kinds, which would be a bad auguryfor him in any profession, civil or sacred, even were he so far submissiveto ordinary rule as to choose one."
"Perhaps he has conscientious scruples founded on his ownunfitness," said Dorothea, who was interesting herself in finding afavorable explanation. "Because the law and medicine should be veryserious professions to undertake, should they not? People's lives andfortunes depend on them."
"Doubtless; but I fear that my young relative Will Ladislaw is chieflydetermined in his aversion to these callings by a dislike to steadyapplication, and to that kind of acquirement which is needfulinstrumentally, but is not charming or immediately inviting to self-indulgent taste. I have insisted to him on what Aristotle has stated withadmirable brevity, that for the achievement of any work regarded as anend there must be a prior exercise of many energies or acquired facilitiesof a secondary order, demanding patience. I have pointed to my ownmanuscript volumes, which represent the toil of years preparatory to awork not yet accomplished. But in vain. To careful reasoning of this kindhe replies by calling himself Pegasus, and every form of prescribed work'harness.'"
Celia laughed. She was surprised to find that Mr. Casaubon couldsay something quite amusing.
"Well, you know, he may turn out a Byron, a Chatterton, aChurchill—that sort of thing—there's no telling," said Mr. Brooke. "Shallyou let him go to Italy, or wherever else he wants to go?"
"Yes; I have agreed to furnish him with moderate supplies for a yearor so; he asks no more. I shall let him be tried by the test of freedom."
